When I was growing up, my parents put up pickles each year (and jelly). My favorite pickles were from the crock, and I would beg and beg each day to try one. (“Are they ready yet? Is it time yet?”) Even when no one else thought they were “done,” they were just right for me. To this day, I still prefer the “half done” pickles in any good deli.

We had dill growing wild in a gravel driveway when I was young. My mother appreciated this once a year during pickling season, but the rest of the time, my father mowed over the stuff to keep it in check and to keep the driveway tidy. I